


Grave Side Visits

by catsandsociopaths



Series: Always Looking for You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catsandsociopaths/pseuds/catsandsociopaths
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things cannot be forgotten-Sherlock reminisces about the one man that he will never forget. An apple, a grave, a strawberry scented surprise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grave Side Visits

**Author's Note:**

> ((Hello! This will be done in a series, obviously and even though this part is all very safe with just a bit of non-graphic, teen friendly things, the following stories won't follow on the same pattern. Will eventually also include Sebastian Moran in nefarious/delicious means. Enjoy!))

The air is cold, crisp, the smell of rain sharp in his nasal passages and the brief, fresh crunch of wet grass meeting and bursting upwards with every calm, measured step. Silver eyes are fixed on a dark stone, tucked away into the corner of the graveyard and then there he is, standing in front of it and looking quietly at the chiseling.

Richard Brook  
Acting his way into Heaven.

It’s a simple stone, a poor man’s stone and Sherlock Holmes knows the name that /should/ be there-James Moriarty, The Spider strangled by his own web. Oh yes, he knows this very well but he just stands, just looks, gaze solid and face unreadable, hands stuffed in his pocket so the shaking won’t be obvious to either him or anyone that passes by him.

Moriarty. The perfect distraction, the game that never ended-until it did. Or, well, it ended for the man whose corpse he is currently standing over, grass long for the whole year and a half since the earth there had been overturned. The keeper (unmarried, three children with two different woman, has a cat and only eats toast for breakfast) does well with having everything nice and tidy and some part of the detective can appreciate that. Some part-the part that isn’t focused on shutting down any outward physical reactions to being here when he has been avoiding the place like a plague.

“You know, there was something that you forgot. You said that you would kill my ‘only three friends in the world’ unless I jumped but, you see-or well, obviously you don’t. Because you are dead. And that is what you forgot. Moriarty, I have one friend in the world. John Watson /but/...I had one partner in the world and that was the man that shot himself to prove a point.” He pauses and truly, talking to a lump of rock (granite, taken from a valley in Utah in America of all places) as if it is a living, breathing human being that can answer his hundreds of questions is ridiculous. Yet, here he is, doing exactly that. Is he desperate or pathetic enough? Apparently.

“You won,” his voice is lower than he would like but there is nothing he can do about it and he, embarrassingly enough, has to swallow a sudden tightness in his throat that has no biological reason to be there, “You. Won. I hope that you were pleased with yourself before you brandished your brain matter to the open air.” Very slowly, he removes his left hand and gently places the carved, dark red apple on top of the gravestone that simply says ‘JM’. It’s a bit of truth in this otherwise large, complex lie and he has trouble letting it go but he must. This is what he came here to do, say a final farewell to the man that he had never known, never liked but that /always/ counted. Even at the end. Even now, a year and a half after his ‘Great Fall’. Funny how people seemed to forget about Jim so very easily. Except, there is nothing humorous about it and Sherlock is not laughing, never laughs. He could have.

No.

No, this is not about him. This is about that apple, on that stone, in this small, secluded location. This is about the man who could only die by his own hand, who would never have fallen, a passionate psychopath with a need for control. Yes, it is about him but, in a way, it is about /them/-James Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. The Spider and the Virgin. Consultants on varying sides of the legal spectrum.

Oh yes, they were a pair-except they had never been a pair. Never got the chance to, did they? Sherlock is suddenly furious and he steps back, the red globe almost toppling from its harsh release but it just wobbles a bit before settling. Unlike Sherlock’s body, that is doing all sorts of strange, unacceptable things, making him feel physically ill. Right-emotions. That’s what is mucking about with his chemical balance and he frowns for a moment before taking another step back. He needs to go again. Staying in one place too long is still dangerous, too many people looking for him, both for nefarious reasons and with desires to be reunited with someone that they are still not quite convinced is dead. Well, not that he can blame them since he /isn’t/ dead but he may as well be.

Turning to go with one last parting look he heads to the path. Until he’s interrupted because…

It can’t be.

When all other options have been eliminated and nothing but the impossible remains than the answer, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. And, as that is the case, then it is James Moriarty standing on the path, looking at him with that particular twist to his lips that only he can seem to manage, dark eyes gleaming with something Sherlock can’t define. 

Then, he blinks, and Jim should be gone, like he is every time Sherlock has thought he saw him before. No, he is still there with his lips twisting down and taking a small step forward, polished leather shoes a quiet tap and click against the pebbled path.

“Sherly, did you really think that /I/ was ~dead~?” There is an honest, open curiosity in that oddly lilting voice as he takes another step. Another. And too soon, too quick, he’s standing in front of the speechless genius that always has something witty to say-except when he doesn’t. Such as now.

Jim’s frown grows deeper, more pronounced and he moves to lightly tap against one of the shiny black buttons of Sherlock’s coat, thoughtful. “You did. You shouldn’t have. /Normal/ people accept implicitly what they see but if you could fake your death, Mr. Holmes, then why couldn’t I?” It’s something the detective had asked himself constantly. If he could do it then Jim should have been able to as well with just as much ease and more than enough advance planning but he is also right because Sherlock had accepted the horror of his death, right in front of him, without too much thought on how to prove that the other man was still alive and sucking in air like he himself is now. Like they both are now.

“Apologies but, as you have said, you are very ‘changeable’.” He croaks, voice suddenly a bit rough as he looks down on the neatly combed hair before Jim’s eyes are flicking up and their gazes connect for a moment.

Giggling, Moriarty rolls those same eyes like Sherlock is just the strangest and also cutest thing he has ever encountered and if it had been another time, another place, he would have bristled like an edgy porcupine. Now, though, he wants to make sure the other is actually real.

This somehow comes in the form of a hug that he doesn’t realize he is delivering until it’s too late, the smaller body wrapped tight in his own, Jim’s face crushed into his neck as he rests a cheek against hair sticky with gel that he had always had the insane urge to mess up. Still does but it is muted beneath everything else that he is scrambling to identify. Relief, elation, anger, sadness, happiness, nasaeu...just to name a few.

Humming, Jim’s arms join the mix, wrapping around Sherlock’s too thin waist and burrowing closer like a greedy barnacle, clinging hard enough to have his ribs aching. “Well, you can’t blame a girl for /trying/. It’s so hard to get the attention of someone as aloof as you. Had to do something…~dramatic~.” The criminal says, breath hot against the slightly trembling man’s neck, making Sherlock swallow again and really, he is surprised that he even /has/ saliva to swallow by this point since he’s been doing it so much.

“Is it not acceptable to send a Valentine’s card or invite me to dinner?” He snaps back but his voice isn’t hard and demanding-it’s worn, tired, just a bitter tang of defeat that sours the roof of his mouth. Jim smells like menthol fags and strawberry soap and it shouldn’t be the best smell in the world but it simply /is/.

“Come now, Mr. Holmes! That isn’t what we /do/, now is it?” Jim fires back, his emphasis of certain words ringing through the otherwise quiet morning as he moves and literally burrows under Sherlock’s coat, huddling against his body, the expensive material of their individual suits rubbing together with that curious slick sound that points to money more than the sound of paper or the clang of change. After a split second of thinking about it, Sherlock has to suppose that Moriarty is right and hadn’t he started, nearly from the very beginning, in just trying to get the genius’s attention through the only way it would be obvious in him succeeding-a mysterious, challenging case? It had worked and if he had just done what he did when he was ‘Jim from IT’ Sherlock would have ignored him (like he did) and they would not be here. Then again, he still doesn’t like where /here/ is…

For several more moments neither of them talk, too busy absorbing everything about the other person. Sherlock is momentarily confused why his face feels cold until he also focuses and realizes that it is wet. He is crying, cannot stop. Jim notices moments later and he’s pulling back, brown eyes wide as he moves to tear off his own gloves and cup Sherlock’s face, swiping small thumbs through the traitorous moisture there. He look enraptured by what he is doing and it comes as no great surprise when he is darting forward and licking at the detective’s face, even if Sherlock still wrinkles his nose a bit at the feel. Wet, warm, a bit rough on his sensitive skin but then it becomes something else entirely because that same tongue is licking at the corner of his mouth, a scout testing new territory. There’s a hand curled and yanking at dark hair and he’s brought down, their mouths crashing together.

From what he understands of such things, this can not really be called a ‘kiss’ per say. It’s a fight, pure and simple, waged with mouths instead of weapons. Teeth clack painfully together, sucking and rubbing sounds fill the air as both of them take part in one of the most filthy kisses that has ever happened. By the time they both pull back, breathing heavy on Sherlock’s part with Jim full out panting for breath, the detective’s and criminal’s hair is wild from strong grips, clothes ever so slightly ruffled (though it might be considered artful, just like this whole scene could be considered artful).

“Well well, Sherly! Who would have thought, hm? Ickle Sherlock, snogging his arch nemesis,” Jim coos, small tongue darting out to lick across his lip. Not a tactful, bottom lip lick but a full circle, slurping sound, eyes dancing mischievously.

“Wrong.”


End file.
